Wake me up when December ends
by GoldSeven
Summary: Peter tries to cope with Nathan's death, particularly as Christmas approaches, and seeks refuge in his work while reminiscing on previous Decembers. Rated M for language. Slightly AU as of "Upon This Rock".
1. Chapter 1

**Characters: **Mostly Peter, Angela, Hesam, some Emma, and, of course, Nathan (in flashbacks).

**Set: **Around Christmas after Nathan's death. I've left open the question whether it's 2007 or 2009. I know the show has retconned the timeline and this should officially be 2009, but I just can't see where to squeeze in the two extra years. The days of the week are as of 2007, but whatever canon you follow, there shouldn't be anything jarring. I realise this'll probably be AU after the show starts up again, as I doubt Peter will be left so much time to grieve, but I promise to finish this story even if it's rendered AU. ;) **Edit**: Yup, pretty much AU after the next episodes... but well, I did call the staged plane crash AND Peter talking sense into a would-be assassin across a loaded gun, even though the rest unfolded rather differently.

**Sparked by: **Thinking of "The Fifth Stage" as Christmas music was playing in a store. It should be prohibited to feel so much for fictional characters, but my heart nearly broke for Peter.

**Disclaimer: **The usual – I own nothing. Thanks for reading and reviewing! ^^

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**Wake Me Up When December Ends**

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**December 23**

**.**

"They're exploiting you, Peter, you know that."

Peter closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and explained patiently into the phone, "They're not exploiting me, Mom. I'm at work _every_ Sunday, and really, I'm fine with it. Two days before Christmas, there's no way I can ask Jackson to start juggling shifts around."

"That decency on your part doesn't stop Jackson from giving you an extra shift on Christmas Eve, though?" Angela went on pointedly.

"He didn't give it to me, he asked around who could take it. EMS is crazy at this time of year." He didn't tell her that he had hardly hesitated before agreeing to take the shift.

Once again, he didn't fool her. "And I bet you were hard to persuade."

Defensively, Peter replied, "Hesam's working on the 24th; I figured I wouldn't leave him hanging."

"Well, that's all right for him, because he's a Muslim, isn't he?"

"He's not, actually."

"You know what I mean."

"It doesn't matter, Mom. I'll be working tomorrow night and that's that. I'll be round later on Christmas Day, O. K.? You said Claire would be there. You're not alone then."

He had been prepared for more stinging remarks from his mother and was surprised when she asked, quietly, "Will you be okay, Peter?"

He was silent for a second, then he answered, with as much conviction as he could muster, "Yeah, Mom, I'm fine."

"Well—," she began, but did not seem to be able to find anything to finish her sentence on.

"I'm fine, Mom," he reassured her again. Another second's hesitation. "Talk to you later. You really needn't have called this early. Catch some more sleep, okay? Bye."

"Bye, Peter."

Peter put down the phone and looked at the clock. Half past six. Time to be off.

It had been snowing continually since the beginning of December, turning New York City into a storybook image of every child's Christmas dream. The TV programme had become unbearable, jingling all the way with badly animated red-nosed reindeers and miracles on 34th Street. And when Judy Garland proclaimed her annual "happy golden days of yore" through the loudspeakers of a grocery store, it was all Peter could do to not just dump butter, milk and frozen peas in the aisle and flee. He took to doing his grocery shopping in Arab stores after that. Much fewer Christmas songs.

He had known that Christmas was the worst time of year to cope with the loss of a loved one. It was something they even taught you at nursing school. He could remember sitting in an auditorium mainly filled with girls, dutifully scribbling down the words, _Christmas worst time f._ _mourning; memories! _into his notepad.

Now, he knew how true it was.

Nathan had died three weeks ago – despite his mother's protestations that he'd been dead for months, for Peter, it would always be that Friday after Thanksgiving – and the wounds had never been given any chance to heal. Nathan had just always been there, especially at times like Christmas, and his absence was something tangible, like a shadow that followed Peter around wherever he went. He never knew how he'd made it through that horrible affair of a state funeral, with all those laudations by people who had no idea who Nathan truly was, right down to the fake plane crash in which he had supposedly died. His mother had arranged all that. He hadn't wanted any part in it, and wished he could have left out the funeral entirely, but he couldn't have done that to her.

As he passed his letterbox in the hall on the way to the front door, it seemed to glare at him accusingly, asking him why he hadn't emptied it for several days.

He looked away, ignoring it. The front door was still locked; he often was the first to unlock it in the morning. It was still dark outside, but several inches of new snow had fallen during the night, promising a day that would certainly not become boring for a paramedic.

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_(__December 23, 1991__)_

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_It was the most boring day Peter could remember. School was out for the holidays, which was a definite plus, but almost nothing else was. _

_He sat on the sofa in the living-room with a book, not to read, but rather to be demonstrative. If he'd truly wanted to read, he would have gone up to his room and shut the door. But he didn't want to read; he wanted to be noticed. _

_It was his twelfth birthday; and as usual, he wasn't allowed to have a birthday party in the house – "as it's too close to Christmas and there's no way I'll have to parties in this house in just two days." It had been the same since preschool. _

_His father had left for work hours before; his mother was in the kitchen, baking for some charity event that afternoon. And she had discovered the joys of the new CD player. Especially the "repeat all" function. Which would have been bad enough already if it hadn't been Frank Sinatra._

_"I'll be home for Christmas, _

_You can plan on me_

_Please have snow and mistletoe_

_And presents on the tree..."_

_"Mom, can't you turn that off?" he shouted with all the exasperation and musical taste of the twelve-year-old._

_Angela appeared in the hall, wearing an apron and insulated gloves. From her expression, he knew that under normal circumstances she would have told him to go up and read in his room, but seeing him sitting on the sofa, she walked over to him with a sigh, took off the gloves, and sat down a few feet from him._

_"I'm really sorry, dear. You can still help me with the baking, you know."_

_"Great," Peter murmured. "Other kids don't have to bake on their birthdays."_

_Her tone cooled. "You don't have to. It was just an offer. And don't pretend that you didn't get a cake today."_

_Peter's eyes were grudgingly drawn to the birthday table in the corner, laden with presents as well as a large chocolate birthday cake. He didn't answer._

_"Look," Angela went on, mellowing once again. "I know you're disappointed. I'm sorry Nathan can't make it until Christmas Day. We'd all hoped he could be home sooner, but it's like it is. And if Joan hadn't fallen sick, I wouldn't have had to organize the charity dinner tonight. I'll make up for it, I promise." She turned as the kitchen timer went off, and got up from the sofa again. "Why don't you phone round, see if one of your friends wants to go to the cinema? 'Hook' is supposed to be really nice. Or that one with Anjelica Huston, I read about that in the paper –"_

_"Peter Pan is kids' stuff." Peter watched her go back to the kitchen. The truth was that he would have liked to see both "Hook" and "The Addams Family" very much, but the "Phoning round for a friend" bit was going to be the problem. Since he had started Middle School, his elementary school friends had disappeared, and he hadn't really made any new ones. For most of the kids, he was the "rich kid", who was invited to birthday parties only because they hoped for cool presents. And the few who didn't care, tragically, didn't meet his parents' expectations of friends for their son. _

_Peter turned back to his book. He considered actually going up to his room now, since his mother's words had made it abundantly clear that being demonstrative hadn't worked._

_When he heard the front door being opened, he was vaguely surprised that his father was home from work that early. _

_Then he heard a very familiar, and very much unexpected, voice calling from the hall: "Hello! Anyone home?"_

_With a rather un-twelve-year-old squeal, Peter jumped from the sofa and dashed into the hall. Nathan stood in the door in his Naval uniform, his kit bag at his side, grinning as he braced himself for the impact of seventy pounds of little brother. _

_"Nathan! You said you wouldn't be here until the day after tomorrow!"_

_"I figured I'd surprise you, buddy." Nathan disengaged a beaming Peter and straightened as Angela appeared in the hall, still in her apron. _

_"You could have called," she said as she embraced her older son, sounding hardly surprised at all._

_"Yeah, I could," Nathan replied, looking extremely pleased with himself. "But my request to rearrange my leave only came through last night."_

_"Rearranged, not extended?" Angela asked._

_"No," Nathan replied, some regret in his voice. "Means I have to be back at the base on the 30th." The look he gave his mother was halfway between apologetic and challenging. _

_Peter didn't care. "I'm so glad you're here!" he said. "It's been absolutely horrible today! Let's do something together, okay?"_

_Angela, taking offence at "It's been absolutely horrible today," said disapprovingly, "Give him a break, Peter. He's just come home. There's some meat loaf left, Nathan."_

_"That's all right, Ma," Nathan said. "It's Pete's birthday. Hey buddy, I didn't stop anywhere really, so I haven't gotten you a present just yet – but let me change into something more casual, and then I can take you out to the cinema or something. Seen 'Hook' yet?"_

_"Not yet, no – that would be great!" Peter was jumping up and down. _

_"I thought Peter Pan was kids' stuff," Angela remarked with an arched eyebrow._

_Peter didn't answer, but Nathan replied, "I hear it's got baseball."_

_"Baseball? In a Peter Pan movie?" Angela said, incredulous._

_"Entertainment for the entire family," Nathan said, winking at Peter. "I'll be down in a minute. See if we can't improve on that absolutely horrible birthday."_

.

It was 6.45 when Peter arrived at Mercy Heights Hospital. Even the hospital was still quiet at this time of day. Peter passed the file room on his way to the garage; that was dark too. A part of him was grateful for it; another part was regretting that Emma wasn't at work yet.

He got the ambulance keys and radios from the supervisor's office and was nearly through his checkup of the truck when Hesam arrived. "This is going to be fun," the Iranian murmured, looking out through the open gates and stamping snow off his boots.

"Yeah," Peter said noncommittally, checking and ticking off two bottles of activated charcoal on his list, then putting away his ballpoint pen. "We're good to go."

"You okay?" Hesam inquired as he took the driver's seat, and Peter got into the passenger's seat.

"Yeah," Peter answered, about as noncommittally as before. Trust Hesam to realise if something was not okay. The good thing was that Hesam was also very adept at picking up silent cues, such as, _I don't want to talk about it_. Another thing that Hesam had quietly picked up was that all radio stations playing excessive Christmas music were to be avoided at all costs.

Another silent agreement was that any such pauses were to be ended by the one who had initiated them. "Let's see if the old lady starts up," Peter said as Hesam started the engine, which, after some rather noisy idling, did start up, and they rolled out. The driveway had been cleared of snow, but that wouldn't be the case for a larger number of the smaller alleys yet.

"What'ya reckon?" Hesam asked as he pulled up the ambulance on the curb. "First accident before 8 A. M.?"

"Probably," Peter said. "That's a bet I'm not taking."


	2. Chapter 2

It was just as well that he hadn't taken the bet. The first call came in after just ten minutes' wait, and sure enough, it was an old man who had broken his ankle when he had slipped on the icy walkway. By early afternoon, Peter and Hesam had treated roughly six people for the effects of the snow. The most memorable one, however, had slipped driving his bicycle.

As they got on scene, Peter saw immediately what had caused the accident. A young man had tried to haul a crate of beer on the rack, had lost control of the vehicle, and had driven headlong into a fence. There were broken bottles everywhere.

"How thick can you get?" Hesam asked the young man on the pavement, shaking his head as he crouched down beside him to assess his obviously broken leg. "Doing a beer run with a bike in six inches of snow? Maybe try a sledge next time."

"We were going to have a party with the guys tomorrow," the boy said sheepishly between clenched teeth.

"Seems you'll have to relocate to the hospital, buddy. But without any of that beer."

"Not that there's much left," Peter said, arriving with the stretcher and moving a bottle out of the way with his foot.

"Is it broken?" their patient asked Hesam, his voice tight with pain, as the paramedic looked at his leg.

"I'm afraid it is. You haven't been drinking though, have you?"

The man shook his head as Hesam put his leg in a temporary splint, and Peter helped his partner to put him on the stretcher. Together, they wheeled him into the truck.

"Hi, I'm Peter. I'm gonna stay with you." Peter put the young man on the monitor and was satisfied to see that his pulse and blood pressure were all in the green.

"I'm Alan."

"Got a phone to call your folks, Alan?" Peter asked.

"My dad. He's on a trip until tomorrow though." He watched Peter nervously as the latter inserted an IV line into the back of his right hand.

"Call him. I'm sure he can come home earlier when he hears what happened." Peter gave their patient a scrutinizing look. "You look a tad young to be buying beer."

"I'm twenty-one... tomorrow, anyway," Alan said miserably.

"That, too?" Hesam said from the driver's seat. "That's a bummer. Rotten time for birthdays anyway, this close to Christmas, isn't it?"

Peter gave a silent snort as Alan answered, "Depends. I get bigger Christmas presents that way."

"I guess," Hesam said conversationally. "Hey, I'm sorry, pal. Birthday _and_ Christmas in the hospital, now that _is_ a bummer."

Peter gave the kid an absent smile, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

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_(__December 23, 1985__)_

_ ._

_"God, Pete, why couldn't you have waited for spring?" Nathan shook his head as he picked up a crying Peter, and carried him back to the house. "Who'd think of riding a bike in five inches of snow?"_

_"It's my birthday now, not in spring!" Peter howled, looking back to where the brand-new bicycle still lay on the walkway. _

_"With some luck, your arm will be OK again by spring so you can try out your bicycle then," Nathan muttered, and Peter howled even louder._

_"Is he OK?" Angela came hurrying from the house, wearing a thick winter coat and slippers. _

_"I think his arm's broken. I'll drive him to the hospital. I'll just put him in the car; can you get his bike?"_

_Angela didn't seem to care much about the bike. She shook her head, much as Nathan had done, as she stroked her younger son's forehead. "Oh, sweetheart. Why didn't you listen to your brother?"_

_"Because I'm sick of listening to my brother!" Peter wailed at the top of his voice. _

_Nathan rolled his eyes briefly, then he put Peter on the passenger's seat of his car. The boy was crying as he cradled his right arm. Nathan considered briefly, then he pulled off his own jacket and stuffed it between the car door and the seat, to stabilize Peter somewhat._

_"Drive carefully," Angela told Nathan. "I'll come after you as soon as I can." The young man nodded, and Angela watched as the car slowly rolled out of the driveway._

.

They dropped the kid off at the hospital, but not until Peter had made sure that his father knew what had happened. Peter wrote up the run form while Hesam restocked the meds they had used, then tried to stay out of the way of cleaners making their way up and down the corridors, in a Herculean attempt to battle the litres of slush making their way into the building in any given minute.

"Probably hot contestants to 'hardest working people' today," Hesam remarked.

"At least they've got it warm." Peter signed the report and skimmed it again before handing it in.

Hesam gave it a glance. "Anyone ever tell you your signature looks like a first-grader's?"

"Yep," Peter said. "You."

"I did?"

"Yes. And I told you if your name's Petrelli, you can't help but scrawl."

"Don't say that," Hesam answered. "I used to work with Kate Konstantinopoulos. Her signature's shorter than mine. Just with a dot somewhere in the general vicinity."

Peter chuckled. "I guess my name isn't long enough for that yet. Thanks, Christine." He put away his ballpoint pen and handed the clipboard with the run form to a nurse at the reception desk.

Hesam cast a glance down the corridor. "Hey, let's get some coffee from the machine in the EMT room while we're here."

"Weren't you the one who always says it tastes like dishwater?" Peter asked sceptically.

"Bird in the hand. You never know when we'll get hold of the next dishwater. Coffee, sorry."

With a shrug, Peter trudged off to the coffee machine and got two paper cups of coffee for Hesam and himself. It was way too hot to drink, and they put them into the cup holders back in the truck.

Five minutes later, they were called to a nursing home in mid-town Manhattan. "An old lady with COPD," the dispatcher's voice came in through the mike. "Had an exacerbation. Go on a two. Judging by the tone of the woman who called, there may be a nervous breakdown on the way as well."

Hesam answered the call. "This is Five-nine, we're on our way. Save your jokes for 2 AM, Joe."

"Won't be around at 2 AM," Joe's voice came back smugly. "Will you?"

"Aw, belt up," Hesam muttered.

It was getting dark by the time they reached the nursing home. After the 24 degrees outside, and 60 in the rig, the house was stifling hot at what felt like 80 degrees. The staff member who showed them in did seem as if she was approximately twenty minutes short of a nervous breakdown. Holiday spirit was running high in the dining room, which was decorated with plastic holly and mistletoe and where fifty or sixty elderly people were having dinner. Peter's stomach growled as he tried to remember when, and what, he and Hesam had eaten today. He was fairly sure they had eaten something at some point, but for the life of him couldn't remember any details. Even the overcooked meat and slimy-looking red cabbage on the plates smelled halfway appealing.

Several people were standing around an old lady at the back of the room; a bossy nurse was keeping curious residents at bay. She even snapped at Peter before she looked more closely and saw his paramedic's uniform.

"She can give Nurse Hammer a run for her money, eh?" Hesam said under his breath as he and Peter crouched to assess the patient's condition.

"Almost," Peter said vaguely. After being flung across a storage room by Nurse Hammer, he would never quite look at her the same way, even though he knew it hadn't really been her.

"Has she been given albuterol?" Hesam asked the nurse, while Peter took the patient's pulse.

"Yes, twenty minutes ago."

Hesam nodded his approval. "We're taking her in," he told the nurse, as well as a member of the nursing home staff that Peter had completely missed, even though she had been present the whole time. "Peter, get us a facemask, or the air outside'll kill her." They had brought the stretcher in when they'd come inside; the nurse looked more than capable of helping Hesam to put the patient on it.

Peter nodded, checking his bag but knowing he didn't have any facemasks with him, so he got up to walk out to the ambulance. An old woman with flyaway grey hair grabbed his sleeve as he passed her.

"Tony!" she said in a brittle voice, squinting up at him to see him better. " It's you – no, don't walk out – where have you been? Don't leave me alone again, like last Christmas… you always leave me alone at Christmas…"

Peter knew the easiest way to get out of situations like these – which were commonplace enough for him – was to play along as far as necessary while extricating himself as gently as possible.

"I just need to get something for Mrs Murphy," he told the old woman. "I'm at work, you know? I'll be back in a second."

She clutched at his sleeve with surprising strength. "You'll be home for Christmas this year, yes?" she asked pleadingly. She strongly reminded him of his grandmother. Whoever Tony was, or had been, it was probable that she didn't see him in everyone.

Gently, he prised her fingers from his jacket and patted her shoulder with a faint smile. "Yes, I promise."

He gave her another pat, and hurried off to get the facemask, pulling up the collar of his jacket. He'd been sweating in the warmth of the dining room, and the cold outside was biting. It was nearly dark, and the temperature was dropping even further.

When he returned into the hall, Peter took a different route through the tables. He saw the old woman sitting on her chair near the middle of the room, staring into space, her mouth working as she played with her false teeth. He suddenly felt terribly sorry for her.

In the meantime, Hesam and the nurse had put the patient in the stretcher. Peter carefully placed the facemask over her mouth and nose, to prevent the cold air outside from obstructing her airways.

Another fifteen minutes later, they were on their way to the hospital again. It was Peter who remembered their coffee. It had long gone cold.

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_ (__December 23, 1982__)_

_ ._

_"So, Peter, what did you ask Gesù Bambino for?"_

_Peter looked up from Nonna's nativity scene, where he'd been playing with the carved wooden shepherds, and glanced blankly at his grandmother._

_"Santa, Pete," Nathan supplied from a chair by the window, sipping coffee. "She means Santa."_

_"I don't!" Nonna protested, shooting an accusing glance at her daughter in law. "I said Gesù Bambino. I'm not going with that soft drink invention. It's bad enough that you do."_

_Angela smiled. "Does that really matter?" she said, peaceably. _

_"And anyway," Nathan cut in, "Santa wasn't invented by Coca-Cola. He's American, we're American. Where's the problem with that?"_

_Arthur smiled and nodded._

_Nonna arched her eyebrows. "If you're all that American, I wonder if anyone still wants any of my panettone."_

_Peter, who had returned to playing with sheep and shepherds (Nonna had removed the Magi and the Virgin Mary as she deemed them to be too precious for the hands of a three-year-old; they were watching the nativity scene from the safe distance of a remote bookshelf), jumped up. "Me! Me! Me!" Nonna's question seemed completely forgotten._

_Nonna wheezed as she got up from her chair with difficulty, and Angela quickly rose to put a hand on her arm. "You stay here," she said. "I'll get the panettone."_

_Nonna wouldn't have any of it. "As long as I'm alive, I'll get the panettone out of the oven," she said with finality, and heavily walked off to the kitchen. Peter dashed after her. _

_Nathan looked after them with a raised eyebrow. "Someone'd better make sure that any of that panettone actually makes it here," he murmured as he rose and followed his little brother and grandmother to the kitchen, just in time to pull Peter back from the oven._

_"Whoa, buddy. Better help me lay the table. Before you burn yourself, or worse, trip Nonna."_

_Peter glowered at Nathan, but let himself be ushered from the kitchen, to help Nathan and his mother put out the good china. Or, in his case, the silver pastry forks, as the smell of freshly-baked panettone filled the entire house._

.

They brought Mrs Murphy in, did two more calls – another sprained ankle, and chest pain – and then chanced a nap in the bunkroom at 10 PM, which, predictably, was interrupted after some thirty minutes of sleep; about the worst amount of sleep one could have.

As Peter and Hesam blearily trudged out to the rig and passed the nurses' station, Christine, the nurse who had been on duty that morning and apparently still was, stopped them. She was holding up two paper cups of coffee. "We just got them from the machine," she said by way of explanation, her nod indicating her colleague sitting behind the desk. "You look like you could use them right now."

"Thanks," Peter said, taking both cups from her. They were still hot, but drinkably so. "You've just saved our lives." He was only half joking.

"Merry Christmas!" she said.

Dishwater had never tasted so good.

.

The rest of the night passed in a blur, a blur of concentrated, non-stop activity. Two nights before Christmas, ice and snow, and a city that was even more crowded than on normal days meant no more sleep, just minutes of napping in the front of the truck. It also meant far too much coffee consumed either much too hot or much too cold, and with all the little emergencies in the life of an EMT, with the added strain that every call they did was overshadowed by the fact that it was so close to Christmas. It was a strange feeling for Peter, who had worked so many night shifts by now, that all patients tonight seemed to feel that life was being particularly unfair, when it was so obvious to him that there were medical emergencies at Christmas just as on every other night of the year.

Their last call was a motorcycle accident on Lexington Ave, to which they were called at six-thirty, and which kept them occupied until almost 8 AM on the twenty-fourth. A man had died before they had got on scene; they had taken another in with serious burns and fractures. Peter was doing the paperwork this time, working mechanically, thinking of little but going home and sleeping the entire day before the start of his next shift that evening. Hesam had already gone off to restock the car.

"Hey."

Peter looked up from his run form at the sound of the voice, tiredly rubbing his eyes, but managing a sincere smile when he saw who was standing next to him. Emma, wearing a warm winter coat, was smiling, too.

"Going off shift?" she asked.

"Yeah," he answered, starting to turn back to his run report to finish filling in the information he'd been working on, until he remembered she needed to see his face.

"Yeah," he said again, putting away his pen. "You're starting yours?"

She nodded. She often made use of non-verbal communication, far more often than most other people. "I was hoping I'd see you," she went on. "I know it's late but…" she finished by holding up a little gift-wrapped parcel.

He blinked. "What's that?"

She handed the parcel to him. "Happy birthday." Her smile deepened.

He was taken aback. "How – how'd you know that?" he asked, finally reaching out for the parcel, which was still dangling from her outstretched hand.

"I saw it on the file you came for a couple of months ago," she replied, looking slightly sheepish.

"And you remembered it?"

She gave a little shrug. "It's not a date you forget."

Peter turned the small package in his hand. "That's – wow. Thanks."

"It's nothing big or anything. Just something I stumbled over. And thought you might like."

"Thank you. It's – it's my first birthday present this year."

"Really?"

"Really."

Emma smiled. "I need to be off – sorry."

"No, it's OK," Peter said. "Hey, I – thanks."

She waved as she walked down the corridor.

Peter drew a hand across his face, and finished his report.

It was light by the time he got home, a new layer of fine white snow brightening up even his Lower East Side alley.

Before he went to bed, he opened Emma's parcel, which contained a very small packaged panettone, no larger than his fist.


	3. Chapter 3

**December**** 24**

.

The worst thing about night shifts in winter was that there were days at a stretch in which you didn't get to see any daylight at all. When Peter's alarm clock rang again at a quarter past five that afternoon, it was nearly dark. He made himself some coffee and spent a quarter hour eyeing Emma's panettone before he broke down and unwrapped it. It was industrially made, and Nonna probably wouldn't have touched it if her life had depended on it, but to Peter, it was a piece of childhood, and of Christmas.

He left home at six PM, an hour before his start of shift, but he knew the city would be sheer madness tonight. He didn't even try to catch a cab, taking the subway instead. It was so crowded with people buying last-minute presents that Peter got off three stations early, and walked the rest of the way. It was five minutes to seven when he arrived at Mercy Heights. Hesam was already there, apparently in a good mood, and was checking the truck.

"You ever had a shift on Christmas Eve?" Peter asked.

Hesam laughed. "Pretty much every year. Hey, I'm Hesam the amazing non-religious Muslim. I've got as good as a subscription for Christmas shifts."

Peter shared the laugh. "What's it like?" he asked after a while.

Hesam thought about this. "It is special," he finally said. "More frantic. More stressy. And more rewarding, in a way. You'll know what I mean by tomorrow morning." He hesitated for a moment, looking sidelong at Peter before he went on, "Emma Coolidge asked me if I'd seen you last night. Dude – why didn't you even tell me it was your birthday?"

Peter gave a sigh. "I didn't tell her either, she just found out."

"Let me guess; you were trying to forget it too."

Peter shrugged.

Hesam put away his clipboard and grabbed Peter's arm. "Hey. I know we've got this 'we're not talking about it' thing going on, but I gotta tell you, what you're doing, drowning your grief in work – it's not healthy, man. There are people who are actually trying to build you up again. You just have to let them. Okay?"

"I'm fine," Peter said defensively. "I'll be okay once Christmas is over. Look, I can't deal with that right now. Work I can deal with. Let's get going, all right?"

.

_(December 2__5, 2006)_

_._

_The door opened._

_Peter didn't move, sitting on his bed, as Elle came in, balancing several trays. Nor did he return the bright smile she gave him as she put them down. _

_Her smile vanished. "You talked to my father again, right? About getting out."_

"_What if I did?" Peter said darkly._

_Her smile was back, as bright as ever, as she moved towards him. "Need something to cheer you up?"_

_She still believed electroshocks cheered him up. As if he had ever been given reason to doubt just how messed up she was._

_Adam was right, they would never let him out of here. He was stuck in this cell with a blonde who was as stunning as she was psychotic, while his brother was in hospital, burned beyond recognition, and his mother didn't even know that her younger son was still alive._

_He suddenly got up from the bed, avoiding Elle, and went to the little plastic cup on one of her trays. He shook out a couple of pills and swallowed them, then, pointedly ignoring her, sat back down on the bed._

"_Hey, the food's nice today," she said, gesturing towards the other tray._

"_I'm not hungry."_

"_Shame. I think it's turkey."_

_Peter fixedly stared at his hands, fighting an icy feeling creep over him. There had been turkey once before around here. To him, it felt like two or three months ago, but it had probably been around four weeks. He had lost count of what day it was shortly after being brought here, and since then, he hadn't dared to ask._

_Elle waited for a couple of seconds until she apparently decided he provided no entertainment today. "Well then," she said as she left. "Merry Christmas."_

_._

Once they sat in the ambulance, they were caught up almost instantly in the madness of the day. Before 9 PM, they'd had two collapses in shopping malls. The first wasn't serious – a worried shop assistant with his nerves on edge had called 911 when an obese old lady had broken down on a bench after twisting her ankle in the crowd – and Peter and Hesam made sure she was all right, offered to take her in, but weren't sorry when she flatly refused. They had her sign a refusal form and cleared from the call within ten minutes of their arrival.

"On the first day of Christmas my dispatcher gave to me / a grandma who fell and hurt her… foot," Hesam intoned as they walked back to the car, in a surprisingly good singing voice to boot. Hesam the amazing non-religious Muslim transmogrifying Christmas Carols was too much for Peter, who burst out laughing in spite of himself, turning several heads as they passed the entrance.

"How come you know Christmas Carols?" he asked his partner, still grinning.

"I don't. I got an email from my little sister with the 'Twelve Days of Paramedic Christmas' this morning. There was more like that, most of it pretty accurate too."

"Yeah, but what about the tune?"

"Hey, I have ears, and I do spend some time in shopping malls, even when I'm not reviving fat old ladies next to the jewellery department," Hesam said. "Besides, it was on a _Scrubs_ episode once."

"You get time to shop _and_ to watch TV?" Peter said, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "I must be doing something wrong."

Immediately after this, they were dispatched to another shopping centre for an unresponsive patient, a woman of around sixty who had simply dropped down in front of a bakery. As Hesam and Peter got on scene, she was breathing fast, her heart rate increased, pupils dilated. Nobody had been with her or could tell them why she had dropped. Peter's first idea was alcohol, but he couldn't smell any. They wheeled her into the ambulance, put her on oxygen, and drove her to the hospital on a two – lights and sirens. Hesam was driving, Peter was in the back with their patient, slightly helplessly monitoring her condition, until he thought of running a test for blood sugar. He had previously checked her for any bracelets or other information that she might be a diabetic, but hadn't found any.

Several seconds later, Hesam heard him let out a triumphant whoop.

"What?" the Iranian called.

"Blood sugar of 23," Peter shouted back. "No wonder she just dropped like that."

He inserted an eighteen gauge into the cephalic vein of her left arm and spiked a bag of Dextrose 50%.

By the time they wheeled the woman into the hospital, she was sitting up and smiling as she told the triage nurse how "the nice young ambulance driver put her right again," and thanked Peter for enabling her to spend Christmas at home.

"How come you didn't tell her you're not an ambulance driver?" Hesam asked Peter as he wrote up the run form.

"'s OK." Peter shrugged. "She said _nice_ ambulance driver."

.

They had barely sat down in the truck again when the mike crackled to life. "Central Park, South End, near E 72nd," the dispatcher's voice said, a female one tonight. "Couple of kids found a homeless woman, most probably critical hypothermia. I told the kids to stay put and wait for you guys; didn't sound like a prank."

Peter took the mike and acknowledged the call, and they were rolling out again.

"The problem usually isn't _finding_ them, but bothering enough to see if they're still alive before they're frozen," Hesam said darkly. "And getting her treated is going to be the next problem. Bagladies don't have insurance. Last January, my then-partner and I saved the life of a guy who was living on the street, brought him in for treatment… we were called to him again on the street two weeks later. Only then he was dead."

It turned out quickly that the call hadn't been a prank. Peter and Hesam arrived on scene in Central Park eight minutes later, where a group of five teenagers stood near a bench on which lay a huddled form, barely recognizable as a human being under several blankets. A mangy dog jumped up from where he'd been sitting beneath the blankets, barking at them.

Hesam looked at Peter. "You're good with dogs, aren't you?" he asked. "Get it away from there. Makes me nervous."

"What makes you think I'm good with dogs?" Peter asked, cautiously approaching the animal.

"I was thinking of the poodle incident a few weeks back."

"That poodle humped my leg. That doesn't mean I'm good with dogs." Peter's voice was amused.

"Anyway, you told me you'd had dogs as a kid."

Peter crouched down to be on the dog's eye level, half-closed his eyes and cocked his head, making a slight yawning motion to show the animal he was no threat. He had to repeat the routine a couple of times before the dog stopped barking, his ears pricked, still attentive but no longer hostile. After another minute, he even let himself be coaxed down from the bench so Hesam could have a look at the woman.

"Nice job," the Iranian murmured as he assessed their patient's condition. "She's non-responsive; hypothermic; second degree congelatio in her feet. We need to bring her in. Shouldn't be hard to lift her."

The old woman weighed almost nothing as they put her on the stretcher. "What about all that stuff?" Peter asked, looking at the blankets, plastic bags, and items of clothing on and next to the bench. "It must be all she's got. And they won't keep her in the hospital forever."

Hesam grimaced. "Can't take it in," he said, covering the woman with two warm blankets, taking special care wrapping her feet. "Hygiene regulations."

"I know," Peter said quietly. The dog started barking again as they rolled the stretcher into the ambulance, but the sound had taken on a desperate quality now.

He walked over to the five kids who had been standing a few feet away, watching the two paramedics take care of their find.

"Hey," he said as he came closer. "You very probably saved that woman's life tonight. Most people would just have walked past."

"Jack prodded her to see if she was alive," the only girl in the group said, indicating the largest boy, who had his arm around her.

"Well done, Jack," Peter told the boy, shaking his hand. The kid awkwardly returned the handshake.

"What about the dog?" a smaller boy asked, who looked to be around twelve.

"I don't know," Peter said frankly. "We can't take him with us. You got an idea?"

The small boy's face lit up hopefully. "I can call my Mom, ask if we can keep him – only as long as the, uh, owner is gone," he hurried to add.

"Sounds like a plan. Make sure you tell your Mom where you found the dog. And it's gotta be full of fleas."

The kid nodded eagerly, already typing on his cell phone.

And be prepared to take that dog in for longer, Peter thought sadly, as he remembered the story Hesam had told him on their way here.

.

Most shops were closed by the time Hesam and Peter had dropped off their latest patient at Mercy Heights, and it showed in a slight decrease of calls. They sat in the ambulance at a quarter past ten, having a quick bite of falafel from a street vendor, probably one of the last ones around.

"It's one of the things that'll make you lose your faith," Hesam suddenly said.

Peter glanced at the plastic bowl in his hands and back at his partner. "Mine isn't that bad."

Hesam went on as if he hadn't heard. "People can walk right past a frozen person in a park, singing about peace on earth," he said bitterly. "They spend billions on Christmas tree lights on every shrub in their gardens and life-size plastic Santas singing 'Ho, ho, ho' from their roofs, and we're bringing in a half-frozen woman to be treated for hypothermia, knowing she'll in all likelihood be dead next month anyway."

Peter had never heard Hesam talk like this. He supposed that was what Christmas Eve shifts did to you. "That's one way to look at it," he said. "On the other hand, those kids did what we always preach about. Look out for each other. Even for people they've never met. Maybe they wouldn't even have stopped to check whether that woman was alive if it hadn't been Christmas Eve."

"You think that's a good thing?" Hesam asked, a challenging undertone in his voice as he looked across at Peter.

Peter shrugged. "They did the right thing today. Any maybe they'll do it again. Who's to say? Would it be so bad if Christmas made them do it?"

"It is if everyone just goes back to normal by Thursday," Hesam replied.

Peter was silent for a while, before he asked, "So, what turned you into Hesam the amazing non-religious Muslim?" His voice, unlike Hesam's, was simply curious.

Hesam seemed to contemplate being offended for a second or two, but then he sighed. "My family has never been very religious. There used to be a lot of people in Iran who observed public religious holidays and such, much like you've got here, but not much more. When the Taliban regime took power, many of those left the country. My family moved here when I was four. The so-called Islamic Revolution made it clear what people will do in the name of religion. We still have relatives in Iran. A cousin of mine died as a child soldier on a minefield in the Iran-Iraq war. He was twelve. They put little plastic keys around the children's necks, assured them they'd unlock the gates of paradise for them." Hesam stopped himself, and rubbed his face. "Sorry. I got carried away there."

"I asked," Peter said, after a pause.

"Yeah, you did."

Then the next call came in, and another meal went on the dashboard uneaten.

.

.

.

.

.

* * *

Author's note:

Hesam's story about his cousin is based on real events. My mother used to be a Primary School teacher in Germany in the 1980s, in a part of town with many immigrants. She used to make house calls to get to know the parents of her kids. When she got to the house of an Iranian pupil of hers, the boy's mother told my Mum that they'd left Iran "because Pasha is ten." For her, that was reason enough. She also told my mother about the minefields and the plastic keys.


	4. Chapter 4

They reached their next destination in the Lower East Side in record time. Hesam called it "the only night that the Christmas trees outnumber the people". There was hardly anything around but cabs at this hour, probably still more cabs than Christmas trees, but the tendency was there. It had started to snow again, but any Christmassy feelings were completely driven from Peter's mind as they got on scene.

The dispatch had reported a hold-up at a liquor store in Stanton Street, and the police was already there by the time the ambulance arrived. Several NYPD cars were parked outside the store, and an officer told them to stay put as soon as they arrived. Hesam threw Peter a glance that plainly said, _See, Christmas Eve doesn't stop these things from happening either_. Peter pretended not to notice. A second ambulance arrived a few minutes later.

For an agonizing ten minutes, they sat there in the truck, looking out at the front of the liquor store, saw some movement in there, but without much of an idea what was going on. At one point, Peter jumped out to get hold of a policeman, but was quickly ushered back in the ambulance, with a minimum of information.

"There's two guys in there who were surprised by the owner," he told Hesam as he sat down, his voice tight. "Said they'll shoot him if the cops don't leave. The usual." He was drumming on the console with his fingers, trying to tell himself that there was nothing he could do. And moreover, trying not to blame himself for that.

After another five minutes, both Peter and Hesam jerked upright at the sound of gunshots from inside the building. Seconds later, a window broke, and a figure jumped out, hit the ground running as cops wheeled around, and continued to run down the street. He broke down as the cops fired, and Peter jumped out of the truck immediately.

"Be careful, dammit!" Hesam shouted at him, although he, too, had got out of the car. "There was two in there, remember?"

Peter hesitated for an instant, but only until he heard one of the cops shouting, "One officer down! Medic! _Medic_!"

"Situation's clear," another shouted from inside the building. "Get your f—ing asses in here!"

Peter knew better than to be offended; he could only guess how tense the situation must have been in there. Seeing your own go down was never business as usual.

The other ambulance's team, which stood closer to the shop entrance, was already in motion. Peter glanced back down the street to where the fugitive robber lay on the pavement, some twenty feet away, and exchanged a glance with Hesam. He didn't know where the man had been hit, or whether he was still alive. Two of the cops advanced on him, their weapons drawn. They reached the man at the same time as Peter and Hesam.

The robber was lying facedown, bleeding heavily from his left thigh, and from several cuts he'd sustained when he'd broken through the window. He wasn't moving. There were no other injuries Peter could discern.

The police officers relaxed slightly when the man still didn't stir after several seconds, and one of them grabbed the man's shoulder to turn him around. Then things happened very fast.

As soon as the cop touched him, the robber spun around, and wildly pointed the gun he'd been holding while lying flat on his stomach. Peter found himself staring back into a wild-eyed face which looked no older than seventeen, with a 10 mm semi-automatic pistol trained on him.

For the first second, he thought this was it. There wasn't any Jeremy Grier around this time.

On the other hand, Jeremy Grier had been a lot quicker on the trigger.

When two seconds had passed and nothing had happened, Peter realised that he stood a chance. The cops were both aiming at the kid on the ground, shouting at him, both of them glancing back and forth between him and Peter, both holding fire.

Peter raised his hands very slowly. "Put that down," he said in a voice that sounded far calmer than he felt. "You do not want to shoot me." The last time he had said this, breaking into Building 26, also staring down a gun pointed at him, he had been backed by Matt's ability. Now, he had nothing of the sort, but he found that the memory helped. His tone was one of utter conviction. The kid on the ground – Hispanic, by his looks – was still staring at him with his eyes wide, not lowering the gun, but if he hadn't shot so far, Peter knew that there was a good chance he wouldn't. The cops were silent now, and Peter prayed that they would keep out of this. The more people would talk at the guy, the more nervous he was going to get.

"Put it down," he said again, with a soothing movement with his left hand in the direction of the cops but not taking his eyes of the kid. "Don't throw your life away like that. I'm here to help you. Treat you. You're losing a lot of blood there. You can end this. Put down the gun."

He held his breath for several seconds, until, finally, he saw the kid lowering his weapon.

Within two seconds, the cops had overwhelmed and disarmed him, pinning him to the ground. Peter wanted to walk towards him, to do what he'd bloody well come for, namely, to treat his injuries, and suddenly found he was kneeling in the snow. He couldn't remember how he'd got there. There was a tingling sensation in his arms and legs. He should have been cold, but he wasn't. He wasn't warm either. He wasn't anything.

Hesam appeared in his field of vision, and Peter became aware that his partner was shaking him slightly.

"I'm fine," he said, in response to the question he realised Hesam was asking. "I'm all right. Have a look at that kid, OK?" All of a sudden, the cold was back, the loud voices and sirens were back.

Hesam gave him another searching look, then he moved a few steps to crouch down at the robber's side, who was still being held down by one of the cops.

"Let me have a look at him," the Iranian told the officer pinning the kid down.

The cop glared at the man on the ground and didn't move aside at once.

"Look, I'm letting you do your job, you let me do mine. That guy's no threat anymore, and he's injured. Let me treat him."

The cop reluctantly moved aside. Hesam turned the kid on his back and immediately started to work on stopping the bleeding. After a few seconds, Peter shook himself, beat snow off his knees, and got up to help.

In addition to the injured officer back in the building, there were several other people in need of treatment. Two cops had light injuries from the broken window. The shopkeeper was in shock, and the other robber, a man in his late twenties or thirties, had been shot twice in the chest. A third unit pulled up on scene soon after the cops had overwhelmed the young robber, so that three medical crews were now taking care of the situation.

It was a few minutes past 1 AM when the paramedics gave up the first robber, and Peter and Hesam headed back to the hospital with their patient, accompanied by a cop.

Somewhere in the vicinity, the bells of Our Lady of Sorrows began to toll, announcing the end of Christmas Mass.

.

At 3 AM, they were back in the truck after rushing their patient into the ER and completing the paperwork. Their falafel had patiently waited for them on the console, and when they hadn't eaten it during the wait in front of the liquor store, it had taken revenge by going stone-cold, helped along by the fact that the auxiliary heating system had failed. The knees of Peter's pants were soaked through from sitting in the snow, and he regretted not having thought of getting himself a pair of dry pants from his locker while he had the chance.

"Whatever happened to your clam chowder guy?" Hesam asked ruefully.

Peter stopped poking at his cold food and looked up. "Huh?"

"Couple of months back, you got us clam chowder once or twice, and said you knew a guy who got it down from Boston for you."

"Ah." Peter carefully weighed his next words. "I'm… afraid I don't know that guy anymore."

"Wasn't that around the time this William Hooper was gonna sue you?"

"Uh, yeah, it was."

Peter was aware of Hesam watching him intently, and pretended to be very busy with his cold falafel, blowing on his hands to warm them.

"One day I'm gonna find out what exactly it is with you," Hesam murmured, then he stamped his feet. "Shit! This park heating is really the last straw tonight."

Peter, glad of the change of topic, pushed his plastic bowl back on the dashboard. "Let's get rolling. That's warmer. If anyone gives us a hard time for the mileage, he can go repair the heating."

Hesam nodded his consent. "Hey… you can get a shuteye in the back if you need to."

Peter shrugged. "No, it's OK. I'm fine. Really," he added, as Hesam looked completely unconvinced.

His partner shook his head. "You'd think you've got guns pointed at you on a regular basis," Hesam said. "You cooled that kid down like a pro. I don't know if I could have done it. That sounded like right from a police psychologist's manual."

Peter gave another shrug. "I'm good with people. Usually."

Hesam continued to scrutinize him, and then he suddenly burst out laughing. "As long as _they_ don't go and hump your leg."

Peter laughed in spite of himself. "Sure _you_ don't need a lie-down?" he asked.

"All I need right now is to get the temperature in here to climb over 20 degrees," Hesam replied as he started the engine. After a few minutes, with the engine warmed up, the regular heating came to life, at least.

They drove around for half an hour, neither of them talking. The City that never slept was having the closest approximation of sleep it probably ever got. Even the cabs were getting fewer; there were almost no people about by now.

Peter felt as if this shift had gone for far longer than eight or nine hours. He was gradually starting to warm up again, and he felt drowsy and exhausted after the night's events. He almost found himself wishing for an emergency, anything to keep him occupied.

Hesam suddenly pulled over.

Peter started, looking at him. "What's up?"

Hesam jerked his head to the right, and Peter followed his glance. They were on East 51st Street, just past 5th Avenue. Above them rose Saint Patrick's Cathedral. Peter didn't say anything.

"You told me this was a special place for you. Get in there. If an urgent call comes, I'll give ya a buzz."

"I can't just go in there now," Peter protested.

"Yes, you can. Just a few minutes. Get in there, good Catholic that you are. Go on; it'll make you feel better."

Peter still hesitated. "I really told you this place was special?" he asked.

"Yep."

Peter looked up at the huge neo-gothic towers for a few seconds, then he wordlessly opened the passenger door and walked out onto the cold and empty street.

The cathedral was almost empty, but not completely. Even at this hour, Christmas night had brought out a few worshippers losing themselves in the pews of the vast nave. Peter sat in one of them, hands folded but not actually praying, resting his head on his forearms. He didn't even need to look around in order to see the place. Sitting here alone brought so many and so varied memories that it was almost dizzying. Nathan's funeral service, only weeks previously. Hiding from Danko's agents in this church, a couple of months ago.

And not so recent times, when life had seemed so much simpler.

.

_(December 25, 1986)_

_._

"_Deliver us, Lord, from every evil, and grant us peace in our day. In your mercy keep us free from sin and protect us from all anxiety as we wait in joyful hope for the coming of our Savior, Jesus Christ."_

_The congregation responded, "For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours…"_

_Peter jerked up sharply as Nathan elbowed him in the shoulder, and joined in dutifully: "Now and forever." He rubbed his arm and glared up at his brother._

"_You gotta learn this stuff before next year," Nathan told him out of the corner of his mouth._

"_I know this stuff!" Peter shot back. "Just not in the middle of the night."_

"_Who was going to stay up all night to get a glimpse of Santa?" Nathan teased._

"_I'm going to!" Peter said in an indignant whisper._

"_Whatcha wanna bet you'll be asleep before the 'Agnus Dei' is over?"_

"_Stop arguing, both of you!" Angela hissed before Peter could retort, leaning around Arthur, her expression furious. _

_As if on cue, the priest said from the altar: "Now give each other a sign of peace."_

_Peter was still scowling as he hugged his brother, mother, and father. Arthur shot him a disapproving look. "What's the matter with you?"_

"_Leave him," Nathan said mildly. "I guess he still thinks I cheated him of that World Series game."_

_Arthur looked truly angry now. "For Christ's sake, Peter, don't tell me you're still on about that."_

_Peter didn't answer. He was still on about that, as a matter of fact. And since Nathan had been at college for the last two months, he hadn't had much of a chance yet to be angry at him. _

_Angela gave all her men a disapproving glance. "Could we please make it through Christmas just this once without arguing about baseball in a church?" she said pointedly._

_Arthur gave his younger son a glance that clearly said 'this is not over yet', and returned his attention to the service as the organ began to play the "Agnus Dei" and the priest broke the host._

_Peter hid several yawns during the litany, and remembered just in time to recite the response, "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word, and I shall be healed." He didn't have a clue what it meant._

_He stayed in his seat as the adults stood up and processed to the altar in order to receive the Eucharist, blinking as he looked around himself. There were very few children in the midnight mass. Nathan had been right; he'd barely made it through the Scripture readings without nodding off. At least the Eucharist meant that it would soon be over._

_The congregation slowly filed back into their seats while the organ continued playing, and the priest purified the sacred vessels. _

_When, a few minutes later, mass resumed and all the people rose again for prayer, Nathan found that he couldn't – Peter had fallen asleep in his lap._

_._

Tiredly, Peter rubbed his eyes and got to his feet, dutifully crossing himself. A glance at his watch told him that it had been twenty minutes. Before he left, he slowly walked over to the side altar with the statue of Christ, dropped a couple of quarters in the donation box, and lit a candle.

.

A heroin overdose and a myocardial infarction later, Peter and Hesam were sitting in the EMT room with a cup of coffee before heading home. No matter how long, frantic, or exhausting a shift had been, it was a ritual of closure.

"What you doin' today?" Peter finally asked Hesam.

The Iranian smiled tiredly. "Spending Christmas with my family, like it's supposed to be," he said. "Dinner with my parents, and my brother and sister." He sipped some coffee. "You?"

"I'm going to see my mother and niece. After some sleep. And a shower. Probably not in that order."

"Sounds good," Hesam said.

Peter nodded.

"Hey," Hesam said after a pause, "did you sign up for extra shifts again next week, or are you actually free on New Year's Eve?"

Peter gave a weak smile. "No, I actually have the day off."

"Care to join us? We're going out with a couple of friends. You know a few. Karen, Nicholas, Bernard. The others are fun too. We've got a table booked, are gonna have dinner, watch the fireworks and pity the guys on duty that night."

Peter contemplated this for a minute, turning his paper cup in his hands, then he looked at Hesam, his smile widening a fraction. "Sounds great," he finally replied.

Hesam grinned. "Cool," he said. "Don't cave in when somebody asks you to work on the 31st, OK?"

"I'll try." Peter stood and stretched. "Catch ya on Friday." He slapped Hesam's hand, and left.

.

**December 25**

.

It was half past three PM on Christmas Day when Peter finally arrived at his mother's house. He'd slept a couple of hours, and had showered for what had felt nearly as long. He was still tired, but it was a peaceful sort of tiredness, like a layer of cotton wool around his core, which numbed any unwelcome feelings enough to be bearable.

He opened the front door, and was greeted by the familiar smells of roast turkey and spruce, and by his mother's old Frank Sinatra CD.

"_Through the years_

_We all will be together_

_If the Fates allow_

_Hang a star upon the highest bough_

_And have yourself a merry little Christmas now."_

It was strange how anything could be so gut wrenching, and, at the same time, so comforting.


End file.
